Sacrament of the Elder Blood
by The Veiled Sorceress
Summary: Sin'dorei and Naga are quite different; that is certain. What happens when a naga priestess agrees to be the ambassador for a treaty with zero disclosure to anyone, even her? What insane adventures will come of this? Rated M for gore, violence, language and sexually explicit content. Read & Review!


**A/N: Hi, and welcome to the latest story I've written. Oh, but don't let me hog all the credit! A friend of mine has been collaborating with me as well! Enjoy!**

 **Chapter I**

The rocks upon which the city had been founded slowly transitioned from callous, course rough formations embedded in the sand, to an almost glass like smoothness the higher the ramp ascended. Some cracks had formed in the edifice where ships had crashed across this slope into the sea. They glowed bright red. An obscene display of magic used quite literally to hold the fabrics of this city together.

The shipyard had been cleared of ships, to allow the naga delegation through. A contingent of blood knights and guardians stood ready to receive them, in long and narrow columns, holding aloft the flags of Silvermoon, amidst a jungle of flags, banners, curtains and sunscreens that radiated a desperate cry for national pride. This part of the city had no houses, all around them they were flanked with the same glass-like rock up to the sky, many feet above them.

Under a sunscreen held aloft by four soldiers surrounding them, the Silvermoon diplomats awaited. On the left, a woman with an extravagant, golden-trim cloak and besides her, a roughed-up man-elf, standing proud bearing the uniform of the guardians and a pristine tabard of the city.

The waters were silent. Not even the miniscule splash of a fish being plucked out of the sky by a seagull broke the eerie stillness. A zephyr blew across the channel between the isle of Quel'danas and the bay of Quel'thalas. Had this not been a day of great importance, many an elf would be basking in the warmth. The nervous guards frantically looked between each end of the port, wondering when the delegates from the depths would arrive, and in what manner.

Before too long, the gentle lapping waves swirled into a disturbed state, drawing back as though a riptide had gripped the bay. Further and further the tide receded, forming a whirlpool half a mile back. The miniature maelstrom coiled and heaved a squadron of great dragon turtles and sea elementals as well as the mur'gul slaves. Soon, naga poured forth from the sea, swimming at a steady pace towards the shore.

Arriving first, was the ambassador herself and the myrmidon bodyguards. Unlike sea witches or sirens, this naga priestess lacked the bizarre appearance of her brethren. While she lacked the gaudy dorsal fins, the quad of arms or the sea snakes, the curvaceous priestess had royal purple tresses that cascaded to what translated as hips. Gold bangles adorned her wrists as did hoops upon her elfin ears. Her clothing was scant, but what she did wear, was a luxurious dress styled in the ancient Kaldorei custom.

Gasps sounded from the men. No amount of discipline could match the ostentatious display of hydromancy on display, the magic that hurled squadrons of dragon turtles and queues of unruly slaves. Truly, it seemed as though there was an invasion taking place brazenly in front of the delegation. But, everyone kept steady. Resolve and discipline was tested on the side of the sin'dorei contingent.

The boiling sea behind the ambassador gurgled and sloshed, it's eddies suckling and pulling at the limbs and bodies of those that walked over the smooth ramp. The male diplomat of the sin'dorei raised one of his grizzled hands, to give the signal. An unseen, disembodied herald announced, echoing dispassionately; ZIN'JATAR APPROACH!

The diplomats moved forward, at a measured pace, as to not see too eager or intimidated by the other force. The woman was about to speak, before her elder interrupted her, "The city of Silvermoon welcomes the naga to the shipyard, Lady Szara," he said, bowing his head and only a slight incline of his back.

Bowing herself, the blue scaled priestess smiled; a fang jutted over her ebon lip. Sweeping her drenched locks aside, she moved her hand off the wicked dagger belted to her hip. "The Zin'jatar humbly accepts your admittance to your land dwelling city." Every syllable involving 's' was greatly emphasised, given the nature of their oral anatomy. In a harsh hiss, the aquatic ambassador spouted orders to her underlings in her native tongue.

One of the larger naga brutes whom towered over the others lashed the turtles together so they would not wander off too far while diplomacy was in action. The murlocs splashed in the shallows, waiting for orders from their overseers. When each and every one of the witches and myrmidons fell into an orderly formation, Szara turned back to the Sin'dorei delegation.

"Shall we begin the...negotiations?"

The male bowed his head again, some of his platinum-blond locks falling out of place. "I am Sellanor Greenshield, Ambassador of Silvermoon, Commander of the Tranquillien Regiment. This -" "I am Sylise Dayreaver." She stated resolutely, without finesse or subtlety, looking at the naga with displeasure. "Yes," the ambassador reflected, with the patience of a tutor, "And my secretary," he said, which earned him sharp glare. He took a deep breath, collecting his focus and isolating him from her deviant looks of him.

"Let us begin the negotiations," he agreed, casting a hand into the city, to open the shipyard distract to her and her forces and giving her the privilege of joining his side underneath the sunscreen. "I hope your journey was unturbulent, ambassador." He stated, looking at her from the side, his arms folded behind his back as they walked. The sound of metal chain resounded and chimed with every step that the ambassador took.

The soldiers flanked them from all sides, practically hugging the smooth walls. "We have been given leave to provide your men access to the shipyard district. We have ceased all ship production to give your forces all the space they need to maneuver. Is that acceptable?"

Frankincense danced around the figure besides her. Scents of melanin, of sun-kissed skin and spiced scents.

Szara slithered at an even pace beside Commander Greenshield. With a small twitter in Nazja, Szara relayed the permissions given to her forces to which one of her three bodyguards wove his way back to broadcast the orders. Lifting her gaze back to Sellanor, she replied, "Our travels were acceptable; most fortuitous that the currents favored us this day. And I thank you for clearing the cove for our arrival. My..." She was going to say 'underlings', but it seemed less professional to their hopeful allies. Instead, she tittered, "my soldiers are an unruly lot. Even while they respect me, they do not always respect non-naga property. In advance, I apologize for any damage in their behalf. In the event it does occur, my slaves will repair it immediately."

Exotic; that was the word Szara would describe the amalgamate of scents that invaded her nostrils. Sea salt, water and wind was normally what she was far more used to. The change of aroma was gratefully accepted. It was a shame it would not be able to exist beneath the waves to be enjoyed their, so it would need to be savored in their time upon land.

"Am I correct to assume the treaty was dealt with beforehand, and this is merely ceremony?" she asked.

"It has been accounted for," Greenshield replied, giving her a genial smile back, continuing to ignore his secretary following them on their, well, his heels. "For you, ambassador, we have a different arrangement. You and your guard. A bathhouse has been cleared for you," he informed, "Would you prefer the water salted or fresh?"

He made a nod to his secretary. With a wave of her hand, a quill and scroll appeared in a puff of purple smoke, the fumes of which seemed to implode back on themselves in their wake. She folded her arms, letting the enchanted quill do all of the hard work.

He took a moment's pause to mull her question over, before finally responding, "Yes, all the hard work has already been ironed out," glancing towards her, "All that is left for us is to enjoy each other's company for the coming week, so the rabble believes we're hard at work." He'd wink, were it any different situation. His dull green eyes glanced occasionally over her body. If only blood elves were that well-endowed. Her breasts appeared as though they could smelt into thin air if exposed, so soft they looked.

Flourishing a hand, Szara again swept her hair from her face. "Very fortunate. As for the bath house, it does not matter. Water is water. We naga were mutated by magic and thus, it does not matter. As long as we are wet, we are in optimal health. To think Vashj would willingly go to the Outlands where water is a precious privilege." Her guards dutifully laughed at her dry joke.

Looking over Sellanor himself, she found him pleasant to look at. Unlike the absurdly ugly human, the elf was beautifully handsome. He had a rugged appeal; evidence that he was no lazy posh noble whom sits back and has others do things for him. No, the man was clearly a warrior. From the calloused hands to the scars along his nose and high cheekbones. Though she dwarfed him by nearly a foot, Szara could tell he was fit for his species.

Extending a clawed hand to the city of Silvermoon, she asked in a respectable tone, "Would you please give me a tour of your home? I would very much like to experience what it is like to be among land-walkers."

They approached one of the gates. And thus, the paradox of Silvermoon. While magic seemed to be imbued in everything, the gates were still plain wood, lifted by chains. The thing that was enchanted was the winch by which it was pulled. To a trained sorceress, it was clear immediately that the city imbued everything with magic, but only the bare minimum after construction was finished. Just enough to keep it all in place. Not enough to install portals rather than fallible, wooden gates.

"Gladly, though I will then have to ask you to leave your bodyguards behind. We do not wish to create a disturbance." He said. He did not make eye contact with her guards; they were hers, not his. Instead, he licked his drying lips as he looked at her face. "Do not worry, I'll keep the city's suitors from you, milady..."

Szara was oblivious to the elf's obvious attraction. She sighed a little bit, loathing to not have her trusted protectors at her side. "Velrash, Naj'ikass, you may go," she said, dismissiing the two myrmidons armed to the teeth.

Staring at the wooden gate, she gave physical displeasure; it was ugly compared to what parts of the city she had seen from the bay. Even the ruins of sunken elven cities and naga dwellings held more beauty than this crude substitution. She even voiced her concern. "Why is this disgusting gate here? Would it not be more logical to lay wards and a portal?"

Sellanor Greenshield seemed taken aback by the objection that the naga posted. He looked at her, not breaking eye contact, before he smiled, like a practiced little envoy ought to. "It is quite ugly, is it not...? The gates to the inner city will be more to your liking," he tried to assuage.

Sellanor offered his dominant hand. It was wrapped in a scaled, leather gauntlet. It seemed to be basilisk skin, or something similar. Magic radiated from the article of magic wrapped around his fingers. One of them was notably missing. "What part of the city would you like to see first, milady," he asked, "Maybe you wish to see the bazaar for our wide offer of traded goods and excellent cuisine." He made a nod towards his men and the gate was cranked open with a twitching streak of magic over the winch.

"We preserve our wards and portals for the Sunspire, my lady. Magic wards have failed us in the past."

Flicking her tail in moderate irritability, the beautiful priestess absently flicked her tongue out to taste the air and the ubiquitous presence of magic. The little action revealed her long, tapered tongue thrice pierced with gold barbells. Perhaps if the elven ambassador was lucky, he would see elsewhere she had piercings...or not. Her tongue itself was purple, albeit nearing the darkest shade possible.

Though Sellanor was offended by her honesty, she was firm in her opinion. What would the point be, to lie to the ambassador of your future allies? She continued speaking, "See that it does. I tolerate unsightly things as much as I tolerate the filth of my slaves."

As they approached, the hand extended to her was tentatively accepted. Her palm slid into the male elf's. The back of her hand was smooth like skin and sported an obscure tattoo known to few. An identification to some, gibberish to the rest of Azeroth. Even her claws had been manicured to the finest standards beneath the waves. Her reptilian eyes fell into Sellanor's fel orbs as she spoke, "This...Sunspire, is it? I would like to see that first."

The commoners immediately looked over towards Szara. Impromptu, the streets ceased their movements and the way was cleared for the civil servants of Silvermoon and entourage. Giant, stone golems, with fingers whose weight could crush skulls, towered over them, keeping the city in check. They were easily 10, 11 feet tall. Each lumbering step seemed to float long and considered, avoiding any and all pedestrians. Subtle magics convincing the rabble to step aside, without knowing why, until the boot of the golem came down.

Despite the facade of the city, the amount of magic devoted simply to enchanting the citizenry was astonishing. Wards kept track of any kind of need the citizens had, then doused it, like snuffing out a candle, before it could light a fire. Distracting them in small ways, empowering their scent or their sight or their hearing. It stressed them all, it made them all feel busy, pre-occupied. Distracted. Just long enough to forget something the city was incapable of providing and refocusing them on the privilege that they had. No mind-washing, by any means, but certainly policing the city's stream of consciousness.

The man's hand folded around the naga's, his thumb on the back of her hand. "The Sunspire...? Of course, please, follow me. It is quite the track," he cautioned. After all, they had to penetrate several more layers of the city's defenses to get to where they needed to be. Giving her the ability inspect all of them and disapprove individually.

"If you tolerate unsightly things not, then maybe I was the wrong ambassador to be assigned as your warden, priestess." He said apologetically, "My secretary can take over if that is your wish."

"Warden? Why, you are no such thing!" she laughed sibilantly, quite amused to to think the man would assume she meant he wasn't basely attractive. "And a far cry from being grotesque. In my centuries, I've seen many things that attenuate your 'unsightliness' as you put it. And no offense, but your secretary seems to abhor me with certain passion. No, you will do fine for such a duty."

Her amusement rose when Sellanor thought it would be far to their destination. She had even had a miniature speech brewing about how it would be a fleck of distance in comparison to swimming miles between the Maelstrom and Vashj'ir. But Szara bit her tongue. She would allow the Sin'dorei that victory.

Whilst she slithered beside her 'protector' as he'd put it, she could see many commoners, nobles and soldiers alike, watching her. Aware she was an anomaly within the city, it bothered her to a miniscule degree. She was used to many reactions from those beneath her care.

Sellanor Greenshield returned her laugh with an amused smile on his scarred face. He absorbed her refutation of his unsightliness and bowed his head gratefully. The secretary clearly made no attempt to correct Szara's statement on her 'passion'.

The streets were smooth, as though they had been made for a palace. Not glass-like, like the shipyard. It had more texture than that. More grip. To add to the irony she enjoyed, a carriage came for them. The horses clopped their hooves on the smooth, polished pavements and threw their heads as they were driven. Then the came to a stop at a respectable distance. "Our transport has arrived," the ambassador said, but his face contorted in a grimace as he saw carriage had been equipped with an uncomfortable, bipedal step in her way. "Driver, the step," he commanded, with a furrow on his brow.

Hastily, with a panicked expression, the servant hopped off the wagon and rushed to collect a cushion to soften her ascent. "My apologies, my lady. I had asked for the step to be replaced for something more comfortable to your kin." Notable was, the servant was not wearing the typical Silvermoon tabard. Instead, the servant wore the Shattered Sun on his surcoat.

Guiding her towards the wagon, he suspended her hand, held aloft in front of them. Formal, not intimate or close, to not give the citizens ideas. But his thumb wandered over the side of her hand, exploring the texture or lack thereof, even through the leather of his gauntlet.

Szara frowned at this outdated form of chivalry. She was no princess, hardly a noble. She was fine with combating this without the sexist gesture. It meant well, but it rather displeased her. Raising a hand, she said harshly, "Belay that order. I need not a 'step' to assist me. I've braved far worse than climbing into a carriage."

When the servant hesitated, she glared. Immediately, he took the wedge away while she removed her hand from Sellanor's own. Now without the obstacle in her way, her clawed hand gripped the roof of the vehicle and raised herself up by extending her tail up and inward. It wasn't difficult for Szara to push herself into the carriage and tuck her tail into her lap. With an indignant huff, she wiggled herself into an as comfortable position as the space would allow.

"As you can see, I am not a fragile weakling by any means necessary." So far, she was not impressed by their customs.

Sellanor watched her, studying her as she ascended. He took a deep breath and then smiled again, "My apologies if my forethought seemed patronizing, my lady. Galleon, bring us to the Sunspire," he instructed. The ambassador raised his foot unto the step and pushed himself up and into the wagon. It was clear, though, that the warrior's scars were not limited to giving him a rugged appearance. Despite his restraint, he could not keep himself from grunting.

His secretary made motion to ascend as well, before she was barred by Sellanor's hand. "Stay with the troops." he said curtly. She began to protest, but the carriage was already under way. The city began to glide by, at speed. The street widened suddenly, revealing a neighborhood plaza, before narrowing down again. "Some time to ourselves, Lady Szara," The ambassador said, folding his hands on his lap as he glanced from the passing city to the beautiful siren in front of him.

His gaze passed over her, "I must say, priestess, you are not as I expected." He commented. "There must be much variety among the naga to produce someone so..." He stopped, meaningfully looking her over again, "So unique," he finished, "Forgive the cliché."

"I am a bit of a rarity among the matriarchs of clans," she replied, not missing a beat. As she toyed with the tip of her widely prehensile tail, the buxom naga elaborated, failed to make eye contact with Sellanor. A touchy subject perhaps. "Unlike most tribe leaders, I am not a siren nor a sorceress. But it is not the branch of magic I studied responsible for my appearance. Most naga favor those we were cursed with. I am a little young; I was born this way. It's a sort of regressive mutation that gives me a more elvish look than say, Queen Azshara or Lady Vashj." To herself, Szara was always the outcast. Then came her conjecture, "This genetic issue is why I lack sea snakes for hair or the frills. Or so the healers from the depths believe."

Her hand strayed away from the twitching serpent tail to the idol strung around her neck. It was a curling tentacle carved from branch coral inset with rubies she had carved herself. A homage to her god. "Tell me about yourself than hearing more speculation of my deformities."

Sellanor smirked, leaning back into his cabin, "Pardon me. I did not want to be too forward and call you beautiful this soon. That would not be appropriate," he said in the hypothetical. His eyes trace her subtle movements, her heavy tail that took up the rest of her side of the cabin. Watching how the coils lay spread out through the carriage.

As she touched the idol, his reached up to touch the green baubles around his neck as well. He counted her scales in his mind. "I have no noble line to boast about. I'm a soldier. I've been called foolhardy," he said with a smirk, "I have a habit of throwing myself in front of any projectile that might catch a sorceress off guard. Not wise, but it certainly wins favors after the fifth time."

He took a deep breath again. There was a whistle in his lungs, scarified tissue obstructing some pathway or another. He barely noticed it himself these days and, despite the tiny, unassuming noise in his lungs, he could breath with relative comfort if he did not exert himself. "What is that idol that you are carrying, priestess? I do not recognize it."

Reluctant, she instead answered vaguely, "It is a deity many land-striders know not of and even many naga are oblivious to his machinations. But he is there, slumbering." She fondly stroked the enchanted coral and said, "A few centuries ago, I took knife to a broken fragment I scavenged. At the time, I did not know what I was doing, but my hands created this on their own. It wasn't another fifty years until I stumbled upon the little gems I've set into the idol. It is a treasure I shall never part with, not even to the rivers of time."

Busy focusing on the fond memories she'd had with the genesis of the token of her service, she hadn't registered his words about her attractiveness. The gaze she felt upon her body felt inquisitive, so Szara wrote it off as purely functions of curiosity.

Her judgement was not far removed from the truth. He was intrigued and naturally inquisitive and naturally hedonist. "You felt an inspiration? Sounds mysterious... I won't pry; I'm not a religious man," he admitted. "The mage-priests did not rub off on me during guard duty." But that was not the end of this conversation.

"I'll be frank, Lady Szara. I do not know much about this negotiation. I suppose I don't need to. What do you know about this agreement we are going to seal, lady Szara...?" He asked. He folded his arms, looking at her. His expression blank. Stony as he considers what they might accomplish together, this week.

"Nor do I," she admitted, shaking her head. It was the truth and she could only speculate what the reality of the contents of the treaty were. Any conditions along side were even more a mystery. "Your guess is as good as mine. Or even the fallible simplicity of a murloc. I suppose the only realistic thought that has crossed my mind would be a trade agreement of sorts. A neutral alliance that bars violence between our factions and a barter of goods from the realm of the sea to the land. Or so I believe."

Still, the man had yet to reveal much about himself like she had requested of him and it bothered her. Was it not polite to share pieces information for another; a courtesy that ought to always be upheld. One way or another, she would learn everything about who Sellanor Greenshield is.

"Would you answer this quandary of mine?"When he nodded, Szara went quiet for a moment. Then she flushes, her cheeks brightening to a light purple as she asks, "What is it like to have feet and legs?"

Sellanor smiled brightly. He did not laugh, he was positively charmed by the show of emotion of the naga. With that bright smile, he looked up at the ceiling, "I could ask the same about your long tail, priestess," he said. His brows knitted as he tested his toes inside of his boots. Now he couldn't stop thinking of how it felt and not knowing how to describe. "How to describe something you've had from birth..." he mused.

"It's rough if you have to walk on stones. It's silky soft if you walk across the sand. Painful if you have to stand around for long hours," he said, pulling from various memories of his ancient past. He glanced back over to Szara, "I mean, I find it quite pleasant," he said with a snicker. "What else do you wish to know about me, priestess...? Should I bore you with my military conquests or my diplomatic ones? Take your pick." He smirked.

Szara shrugs. "My tail is very much like a snake's. Strong, muscular and scaly. It's well adapted to arch and sway in the water to propel me forward and resisted to sharp objects upon land. I don't know much about you to be honest. So choose whatever you wish to share. It's probably far more interesting than studying to be a priestess or fighting obnoxious mind-benders and stubborn kraken. As much as I love the sea and all her wonders, it can get boring, I assure you."

From the vibrations as subtle as they were, she could tell the carriage was moving slowly. Unlikely as it could be, she doubted it was heavy traffic. She had only seen a few elves on the streets. Was it normal to slow the passage of speed for a diplomat? Whether or not it was the case, she had noticed it.

"Well..." The former guardian began, "I have lead an initiative into Northrend. The realm of the Lich King. In name of the fatherland, I promised high elves of the Alliance free passage from Quel'Danas to Quel'Thalas should they volunteer," he said. His expression darkened, lost in thought for a number of second, before elaborating, "It wasn't enough in the end. To comply with the wishes of the Dark Lady, Queen Banshee Sylvanas, we were forced to conscript civilians." He took a deep breath. His hand rested on the window out of the wagon.

"When I came back, I requested to be sent out to represent the blood elves to Stromgarde. My secretary's not very fond of the way that I handle relations with the people of Stromgarde and the high elf colonies on Stromgarde's shores. I suspect she was assigned to keep an eye on me."

Fidgeting with her tail once more, she queried, "Are the humans not the enemies of the Blood elves as consigned by the Warchief of the Horde? If your current ruler; Lor'themar Theron, I believe, if he is consorting with the Alliance, then I very much doubt Sylvanas would be please. Is she even aware of this treaty between us?" She puffed her chest out, embedding her theory, "Should she not be aware of these tentative alliance your leader is attempting to make, it would be quite easy for her to remove the Sin'dorei from the Horde altogether by pinning Lor'themar as a liar and a traitor. Much like...Prince Kael'thas?"

It was a low blow and Szara knew it. But she always chose the truth. Even when she needed to hide information, she merely omitted what she wanted and danced around the truth. But even now, she would not give false ideas to an ally, or a potential one anyways.

The ambassador nodded, "That is true. And that is precisely why I left for Stromgarde. Stromgarde is part of the Alliance of Lordaeron and not the contemporary Grand Alliance. To the Horde and Alliance, that makes little difference of course. My presence in Stromgarde was merely as an envoy to inform the people of Stromgarde of the desires of Lor'themar Theron if they wish to avoid direct conflict.

"My secretary was peeved, because I had informants falling over themselves, even statesmen stumbling into telling me their greatest secrets and I politely and directly informed them that, if I knew what they knew, and it would appear that Silvermoon acted based on information I possessed, I would be hanged by the people of Stromgarde. I had a job to do and that was convert as many high elves as possible," he explained.

"My secretary thought I was negligent for not using the opportunities I had to find out all the secrets of some backwater human kingdom that is barely held together by rocks and sticks."

Merely nodding, Szara had already grown quite bored of politicking. If she had known there was more to simply staying in the elf city for seven days and signing a simple piece of parchment, she never would have agreed to be the designated ambassador. What she had really been looking forward to, was the wonders above ground. For six hundred years of her life, she had only known the depths. Two hundred years later, she had been allowed to visit Vashj'ir and the strand of sand above it and until today, she finally was allowed to be on land in a populated settlement.

"Are we at the Sunspire yet?"

The carriage ground to a halt. "Commander, we are being hailed!" Sellanor nodded. "That'll be the Sunspire," he said. The former guardian stood up from his seat in the carriage, opened the door and made way for the naga to make her own exit. The Sunfury Spire stood high and mighty, spreading its elaborately decorated wings high into the air, as though it hid the silhouette of an enormous eagle, drop-diving out of the sky, and unto the prey that was the city. And, below that, the street directed the attention to a shimmering, red orb with metal figured twirling by some elaborate magical mechanism. Behind this orb, there was only the wall that guarded the inner city.

"Here we are," he said. The grandeur of the Sunfury Spire created the illusion as though the city stretched from horizon to horizon, horizons obstructed by tall buildings. But the buildings were that. Tall and grandeur. All of them at least 4 stories high, obstructing sight of the horizon.

"There, all the magisters gather to resolve any issues of the citizenry," he said, glancing back toward her.

Thoroughly impressed, the purple haired naga smiled. Even the twitching tail tip swayed with admiration of the skyward structure. After a few minutes of marveling the sin'dorei engineering, she took her time to say, "Whilst I am not a fan of flying creatures, I will admit this is quite a sight to behold. Most naga cities pale in contrariety to the Sunspire. Only Naz'jatar rivals this beauty." When he gave her a confused eye loft, she quickly added, "It is the capital of my race, where Queen Azshara lies within the depths of the Rift."

As the sun overhead blazed, she groaned. How could she forget to to carry a trinket to spritz her every now and then? Her scales were drying out and it was rather uncomfortable. But her pride refused her to admit that she needed help. As she looked around, she failed to spot any bodies of water and the nearest was the ocean a mile back.

The ambassador raised his chin, a half-nod unfinished, as though he knew anything about the Rift or Naz'jatar. "I am grateful you enjoy the sight of our grand city, my lady. And I'd be reminded to tell you; once, this city reached even higher and even wider." He glanced up, pensively at the Sunfury Spire. His words rang hollow. His memory of the time before was hazy at the very best. Maybe it hadn't been as grandiose. Maybe it had only felt that way. He couldn't tell the difference anymore.

"Come, I'll show you the Court of the Sun," he said, casting a glance over her as she groaned. He cast a helpful hand, directing her towards the orb. "Reach out to the orb and you will find yourself where you want to be," he instructed, so precisely that it must have been a quote.

And on the other side, stone carp spewed water into the air and into the pond that decorated to Court of the Sun. They had all been beautifully, precisely carved, as though they were real, living creatures.

Szara stroked the crimson orb of translocation and found herself standing on warm pavement before the palace where she believed the laws of the land were formed. Taking a little time to freshen herself, the naga splashed water all over her body. As she did so, droplets of water glittered off her vibrant scales. Of course she cared little if her clothes got wet. All she needed to was to rehydrate herself in balminess of Quel'thalas. "Such a beautiful city."

Again, she had seen from Sunstrider Isle a sight that bothered her. "I noticed that the way to the western half of the city has been closed off. Why is that?"

The ambassador joined by her side, a knowing smile on her face, glad to have picked up on her needs. "The western half? Hm..." He said, as though he'd not thought of that. He looked in the direction of the west, "The west is still under construction. Remember the civil unrest I mentioned before...? There are those who swung too far to the other side..." He said. "The west is where the unruly remain. It would not be appropriate to show our guest the slums," he said, his face stony as he stared at the wall to the west, a wall that directly separated the city from the Great Scar and then another wall to separate the West. All neatly tucked away from those living in the pleasant east side of the city.

" 'Don't fret about the west'," he said, again as though quoting. But his spirit was not in it this time. Now, translocated in front of the spire, the spinning disk was revealed. A giant, gyroscopic disk between the wings was slowly turning in erratic patterns, as though it were a clock. Reminiscent of an arcane sanctum, which indeed, the Sunfury Spire was.

"Shall I take you to your residence, my lady...? It is not far from here."

Nodding, she replied, "Yes, I would appreciate that. It has been a long day for both of us." While the water had rejuvenated her from withering under the tyranny of the sun, she had become greatly worn out. Not only was it exhausting to swim for several league even under a current, all the travel and discussions were too much for her to continue the tour. "Besides, we still have an additional five days to relax before the ceremony. Rest will do well for both of us. Are we going by carriage once more, or by foot? Or tail in my case?"

"By foot. It's not far from here." He said. The ambassador gestured towards a nearby ramp downwards. Sinister curtains, wispy and see-through billowed silently in the wind. It felt much as though the Court of the Sun stood at the precipice of a shelf at the bottom of the sea, before opening up to a black abyss. But an abyss that is lived in is perhaps as terrifying as an abyss that is truly empty.

The ambassador lead, walking towards the ramp. The ramp went down in plateaus. No carriages were allowed beyond this point; the polished ground showed the many carriages that had lost control coming down this particular ramp. Down two levels, the ambassador pointed to the right side of the street. "There! The bathhouse."

Glamorous it was not. But hardly could they have freed up one of the higher class bathhouses in the city. Much more convenient to compensate the owners of a bathhouse in Augur's Row. Or better known by another name. Murder Row.

Slithering down the rump, she couldn't help but turn her nose up at the street which her 'hotel' was located. Szara's sharp reptilian eyes could spot shards of broken bottles and trash littering the ditches of the street. Drunkards and beggars passed out along the alleys or flat on their backs in the middle of the street. She was definitely not impressed at the cheapness. No expense for ambassadors; what a lie. She hoped at least the inside would be far more accommodating than what she saw so far of the street.

"I will see you in the morning then. Or you may fetch me whenever."

Sellanor seemed to realize the error of the Magisterium as they were coming down the ramp. Inside, luckily, things were much more pleasant. The place was entirely tile, by hand and not by magic, carving out pools as shallow as feet or deep enough for a full body to be submerged. An attendant stood ready to accept her. "Welcome lady Szara. We hope that you will find your stay here welcoming. Do you desire any supplies? We will bring it to you as soon as we can carry them. Furniture, stationary, artworks, we'll bring it all." The blood elf sounded disciplined and eager to be of service, though the man didn't look her directly in the eye, looking at the wall besides her instead.

He smirked at the attendant. "It seems that you will be well-looked after. I shall return to you in the morning and we can complete our tour, milady."

 **A/N: I hope you all enjoyed the pilot chapter. Don't forget to leave a review~**


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